


Vintage Spirits

by silver_sun



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Peter POV, Pre Peter/nightingale type vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:30:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/pseuds/silver_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vague tip off leads Peter and Nightingale to an antiques fair in Surrey in search of mystery magical object.  </p><p>Set shortly after Moon over Soho, about week or so after Peter talks to Lesley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Vintage Spirits.  
Characters: Peter, Nightingale. (sort of pre Peter/Nightingale ish)  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: This part 6750 words, over all 13,000 words. 

Summary: A vague tip off leads Peter and Nightingale to an antiques fair in Surrey in search of mystery magical object.  
Set shortly after Moon over Soho, week or so after Peter talks to Lesley. 

 

Taking a drive out to the countryside was a lot of peoples idea of a good time. It wasn’t mine however, especially not when it was seven o’clock on wet Sunday morning. Not even the fact that we were going to be right next to where they filmed Top Gear and there was a tiny chance that we might see the Stig bombing round the track in something that I could only dream about owning could fire any enthusiasm. 

Crime didn't have a lie in at the weekend so neither could we. Not that what we were going to was a crime scene. As far as I could tell no crime had been committed, not yet anyway. Nightingale had got a tip off from one of his dubiously human sources that a magical item, one that could be dangerous in the wrong hands, had ended up at an antiques fair in Dunsfold. The fair opened for traders at eight thirty, which was why we had left London at an hour that I think should be illegal at weekends. Not that we got there for eight thirty in the end. Traffic out of London had meant that it was closer to nine by the time the Jag was safely parked in the field set aside for people buying and browsing the stalls. 

This was in hindsight the point were our day started to go wrong. The traffic in London didn't count. There was always a traffic jam somewhere day or night. No, our first problem was that we didn't have a description of the object that was for sale. We did have a name. Unfortunately it wasn't the name of a person. It was the name of a cottage, Pinecote, in the wonderfully oddly named village of Abinger Hammer, which was about ten miles up the road from the fair. We hadn't been able to find anything remotely interesting about the cottage apart from the fact that if you wanted to buy a little piece of history in the Surrey Hills the price tag would be nearly as eye-wateringly awful as central London. Abinger Hammer itself was fairly unremarkable as well and I suspected that its history and that of a lot of little villages in the area were virtually interchangeable. 

If it had been my contact giving me such vague information I'd have told them either to give me a bit more to work with or I wasn't going to take a look at it. Not that I had any contacts, but it was the principle of the thing. Whoever or whatever it was that had provided my boss with the intel must have got his trust, as there was no way Nightingale would have headed out of London and our jurisdiction otherwise. There was also the fact that we were working this one off the books as well. I guessed that once we'd found what we were looking for and worked out what sort of crime could be committed with it we would be able to work out a charge of attempted something or other. Everybody is guilty of something at sometime or another, and a lot of whether we went after them was down to what they were guilty of. Littering and murder are both crimes, but nobody expects the police to treat them the same.

We spent a while wandering up and down the rows of what I thought was probably over priced tat and things that weren't as old as Nightingale, but were now antiques. I wondered if he, like my Dad, thought about stuff they'd had as a kid and chucked out years ago and now turned out to be worth a bomb. Give another few years and I expected that I'd be thinking the same about the Lego and things I'd had, and which Mum had when she'd considered that I'd outgrown them, packaged up and sent to my innumerable cousins. Their mums had probably done the same by now. My childhood toys had probably seen more of the world than I had. 

Eventually we decided to split up as we'd be able to cover the area twice as fast. Which of course meant that five minutes after we did I finally got a hint of vestigia off one of the stalls. It was a damp sort of feeling, with a smell like mould. I could have almost put it down to the weather, except there was nothing on the fold up plastic table that could smell like it. What I also got was the fact the vestigia was fading fast - whatever it had come from had already been sold. 

I considered asking her about it myself and then realised that I knew pretty much nothing about what we were looking. Hoping that there was more that Nightingale had forgot to tell me I went off to find him. It would be worth knowing what he made of the vestigia, whether he thought it could be what we were looking or if I was about to start chasing off after something interesting that wasn't our case. Well yet at least. I doubted we'd let something leaving vestigia just disappear. 

It took me a while to find Nightingale and he seemed relieved to see me as he'd ended up with a stall holder who was sure that he wanted to buy a vintage record player and was holding out for better price. It was nice and I knew it was the sort of thing that my Dad would consider a classic. I also knew there was an equally nice and unfortunately never used one back in the Folly. 

"I think I've found what we're looking for," I said loud enough for the stall holder to get that I wanted him to hear.

"Have you bought it?" Nightingale asked. 

"Not exactly," I said as we made out way back to the stall. "It was there, but all that's left is a small bit of vestigia. I think she's already sold it." I wished we'd had Toby with us, but Nightingale had flat out refused to have in him the Jag. I'd pointed out he'd let him in the past. And he'd pointed out that all those trips had been of a quarter of a hour or less. He was not having him in the car for a hour and a half. 

"That is unfortunate," Nightingale replied. I could tell he was concerned about the vestigia hanging about, as presumably the thing, whatever it was was doing something. "Although she should hopefully be able to give us a description of both the object and the buyer, so it might not be a complete loss."

The stall with the vestigia was called Pat's Bric-a-brac and consisted of a couple of tables and clothing rail at the back of a transit van. The titular Pat proved to be a white woman in her early fifties with startlingly red dyed hair which had been permed within an inch of its life. It didn't look awful, despite the garish purple rain mac and leopard print leggings. She made me think of Jennifer Saunders character in Absolutely Fabulous. The scandalous auntie every teenager secretly wants because they know where cool parties and alcohol are. 

Pat pulled up her hood against the drizzle that had just started. "See anything you like?"

"DCI Nightingale and my colleague, PC Grant," Nightingale said, taking out his ID. "We would like to know what you've sold today." 

I don't think a rabbit in the headlights could have given us a more shocked look than we got off Pat as she said, "Just a couple of vintage coats and a glass bottle. Why? What's this about?"

There was no way the coats could have been on the table. They had most likely been hung on the clothing rail which Pat had attempted to shelter from the weather by covering it with a plastic sheet. Which left the bottle. Which made me think of genies. Okay they were more traditionally associated with lamps, but who knew where things like them, if they existed, hung out these days.

Nightingale seemed to be of the same opinion as me, about it being the bottle at least, as he said, "Could you tell me how the bottle came into your possession?" 

"I got it from a house clearance. It's all above board. I've got receipts and the like if you want to see them," Pat said, folding her arms across her chest. "It weren't like it were jewellery or anything right valuable. I got it along with a couple of china dogs, a 1970s desk lamp, an occasional table and some decorative plates, Devon and Cornwall seaside scenes. They ain't anything anybody'd nick."

"I'm not accusing you of being complicit in anything underhand. Do you know the name of the property the items were from?"

Pat scratched her head and then shoved a handful of wayward curls back out of the rain under the hood of her coat. "Pine Cottage or something like that. I've got it written down somewhere if you really need it. I only went out there the once to get the stuff."

Nightingale nodded. "I see. Is there a reason why you didn't go back?"

"Like I said it were a clearance sale. I arrived late, got lost getting out there, right back of beyond place it were. Any how, most of what were left was tat or too pricey for me. I think they had a wardrobe or two and a sofa suite left when I went. There might have been some garden stuff too, but that's not my thing. They did have a cracking farm house kitchen table and all. But I couldn't get it in the van and I didn't reckon as I could turn a profit on it, not for two-hundred and fifty quid."

I wouldn't have paid that much for a table either and I know my Mum would have said only people with more money than sense would shell out that much. 

"Do you have a name or contact details for the buyer of the bottle?" Nightingale said, getting a notebook out of his coat pocket. 

It wasn't the one he used when we were working an official police case, but with the stuff that we spend our time investigating there was no way you could keep it in the one that could called on to be used as evidence. There were records of all the old cases that the Folly had taken on in its couple of centuries of police involvement. They had probably looked into stuff before that, but until the Met had been formed they had literally been a law unto themselves.

"Yeah. He were a right character. I thought he might have been an theatre type, bit showy, thought might be a bit..." She made a limp wristed gesture. "Monty something it were." 

Sometimes even the friendliest seeming people could be downright unpleasant about somethings. I wasn't anywhere near the worst I'd come across. Drunken football fans tended to be the most creative in their insults about just about everything, but you expected them to be wankers. It always seemed to be worse when you heard it from somebody who otherwise came across as nice. 

I saw a slight look of annoyance on Nightingale's face and I suspected he wasn't any happier with her than I was. Given that he'd grown up and lived his life in a world where it had been illegal I thought it was kind of telling that he never appeared to have an old fashioned attitude about it or any other kind of relationship really. I suspected that it might have been too close a subject for him. 

"Rhodes that were it." She clicked her fingers. "Monty Rhodes. Do you think he were up to something dodgy then? I mean he seemed so nice, you don't expect people like him to be doing criminal stuff."

"We believe he may have unwittingly bought something that the original owners of the bottle never wanted him to have," Nightingale said. 

It was true and a lie at the same time. Nothing about his face or tone of voice gave that away and I made a mental note never to play poker with him unless I was in the mood lose badly. Not that Nightingale had ever suggested playing anything with me, but 

Pat looked at the picture of the unremarkable looking bottle. "What you mean there's something dodgy in that bottle?" 

"I'm afraid I can't comment on that, not during an active investigation."

"No, I 'spose not," she said sounding disappointed, and I guessed this was probably the only exciting thing that was likely to happen at the fair. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" 

"A description of the bottle would be useful," I said, deciding that I might as well join in, being as I was the one to find the stall in the first place. 

"I can do better than that. Give me mo," Pat said getting a plastic folder out from under the table. "I take a photo of everything before I sell it. Had a load of stock nicked once. Down at Hastings, near the pier it were. Insurance company were right ars...well I don't wanna swear in front of policemen. But I take pictures now so they can't worm their way out of paying if it happens again."

"A very sensible precaution," Nightingale said. He leant forward slightly to get a better view of the pictures. "Which one is the bottle you sold today?"

"It's near the back, I ain't moved it out of current stock yet, I was gonna do it come lunch time. Usually tails off a bit then." She flicked through a load of small pictures of ornaments and glassware. "There we go." She point at a photo of an old bottle with what looked like string wrapped round the top of it. It was probably brown or dark green glass and the pound coin that was in the picture for scale meant it was about the size of a milk bottle. 

As things go it was pretty ordinary looking. Which begged the question why had anybody wanted to buy it unless they knew something more about it. I think Nightingale was following the same line of thought as once he'd thanked Pat for her help he said he was going to call a friend for information about Monty Rhodes. By which he meant he was going to borrow my phone as he was the only person in London over the age of eight without a mobile. It had happened often enough that he just about knew how to use it without having to ask me how it worked each time now. 

"Would this be the same contact who tipped you off about it?" I asked as I handed it to him. 

"No." Nightingale got out a small, leather bound address book and looked through until he found the entry he was looking for. "Gordon is an old acquaintance. He runs an antique business and I suspect knows most of the traders here. If Monty Rhodes runs any kind of legitimate business he will know about it." 

At least we hoped he would, as his phone rang and rang until it went over to an answer phone and Nightingale left him a message to call him back if he knew anything. There wasn't much point in standing around getting rained on so we decided to shelter from the drizzle in the marque style tent that had been set up to serve over priced tea and coffee in paper cups to their captive audience. I suspected that the caterers would have fitted right in at the canteen at Camden nick, they seem to have the same opinion of tea making. If it wasn't orange and strong enough to discolour a stainless steel teaspoon in under a minute it wasn't a proper cuppa. 

Nightingale didn't seem to mind. I guess when you've lived through two World Wars, a depression, rationing and seventy years of police canteen brews you can probably drink just about anything. Even he didn't get a second cup. So I felt totally justified in tipping the remaining half of mine outside the tent when nobody was looking. 

We were saved from having to consider slightly damp looking sandwiches by Gordon phoning back. 

Gordon Morden, whose parents must have had a twisted sense of humour to saddle him with such a name, seemed happy enough for Nightingale to call him out of the blue on a Sunday lunchtime. And although Nightingale hadn't put him on speaker phone I could still hear most of what he was saying. 

"I hope you know how many favours I had to call in to get this information for you." 

"Gordon, we've been friends for more years than I care to remember," Nightingale said, "And I very much doubt you've called more than a couple of people. You never liked doing the leg work." 

I'd expected Gordon to get annoyed at that, but he laughed. "You know me too well, Tommy."

I tried to hide a laugh at the face Nightingale pulled at that. I really couldn't imagine anybody calling him that with any degree of seriousness. Apparently neither could Nightingale and he cleared his throat and said, "Not so well if you've forgotten that I asked you not to call me that." 

"So what you doing these days?" Gordon continued undeterred. "They still got you working cases?" 

"I'm still with Social and Economic," Nightingale replied patiently. I suspected he wanted to tell Gordon to get to the point and skip the social niceties. 

Gordon didn't seem to get the hint however as he said, "Getting their money out of you, ain't they? You must nearly be up to compulsory retirement now, you weren't that much younger than me." 

"I'll stay as long as they'll have me," Nightingale replied. 

'You should have settled down with Annie from the canteen, she were sweet on you, and you'd have always had a good meal to come back to. Or have you finally found somebody who'll put up with you?" I could almost hear the wink down the phone. "There were rumours about her not having the kind of bits you fancied. Stepping out down Covent Garden of an evening, I heard." 

"I never did listen to gossip. If I'm married to anyone it's the job," Nightingale said sidestepping the the question. 

"Warrant cards and evidence bags don't keep you warm at night."

"Then it is as well I have central heating at home," he said, a little more sharply than before. "Gordon, I wouldn't have called you if I didn't need this information. Incase you have forgotten I'm on an active investigation. One which may be more time sensitive than I had previously thought."

"Time sensitive antiques? Well that's a new one on me. Right then, what do you want to know about Monty?" 

"What he normally trades in, whether he is considered to be 'dodgy' in any way. And if at all possible a contact number." 

"Dodgy? Monty? Never. If he's got himself caught up in something it's because he's not twigged there's anything off with it. He deals in a little bit of everything, mainly it's stuff for city folk wanting to get that olde worlde look for their new place in the country. So old furniture, copper saucepans, clocks, painting and the like." 

"Would he deal in ornaments or glassware?"

"If he thought there was some money to be made. Glassware is popular with trendy pubs these days. Sold a few bits myself the other week. Made a tidy profit I can tell you," Gordon said sounding pleased with himself. "And I can do you better than a phone number, I can give you an address as well." 

Gordon chattered on for a bit after telling Nightingale Monty's phone number and that his shop, Rhodes Antiques and Collectibles, was in Cranleigh, which by all accounts wasn't all that far away. Eventually Nightingale managed to get Gordon off the phone and he handed it back to me looking relieved that the call was over. 

"So how do you know Gordon then?" I asked. I kind of like finding out these little bits about his past. He didn't talk about it much so when the opportunity to ask something about it appeared I usually took it. Not least because when it did it frequently ended with me finding out something else about how magic worked or what kind of weird and wonderful things were out there that I'd never even heard of. 

"Gordon, Sergeant Morden as he was then, worked out of Holbourn until Ninety-Eight. He took retirement as soon as it was offered and joined his wife in her antique business." Nightingale smiled slightly. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who was quite so unsuited to police work as Gordon. But he put in the hours. I really do believe he only joined the force for the pension and the hope of retiring after thirty years." 

Retirement seemed a very long way away to me. Not least because the government kept moving when it was supposed to be. You probably had to be a very particular kind of person to start a job and already be looking forward to retirement. Gordon seemed happy on it, so good for him. 

"Having an old acquaintance who happens to be in the antiques business is useful," Nightingale continued as we walked back to the car. "Even if it does mean I'm going to have to think of a reason not to attend the party he's tried to invite me to." 

"Is he that bad?" I said. A party sounded alright to me and Gordon hadn't sounded too bad. 

"He can be a little overbearing sometimes and will no doubt be trying to impress his new friends in the polo playing set, but that would be no reason to refuse." He opened the car door, then paused and said, "It would however be rather hard to explain why I now look younger than when I first worked a case with him." 

Yeah, I could see how that would be a problem. 

We sat in the Jag and had a go at phoning Monty Rhodes and on the third attempt we actually got through. We couldn't tell him that he'd bought a magic bottle with might be about to do something magical and nasty in case he'd bought it for just that reason. It didn't seem likely, but if policing and magic had taught me anything it was to be suspicious of people who seemed too nice.

Nightingale let me to the talking this time and Monty agreed to meet us when he got back to his shop after lunch. Lunch sounded a good idea from where I was sitting and fortunately Nightingale agreed so we drove into Cranleigh where Monty's shop was and had a look round for somewhere to eat. 

Cranleigh couldn't seem to decide if it was a small town or a large village, so it had plenty of shops nearly all of which were shut. Useful. In the end we found a pub on the high street, and after ordering some lunch, I used their internet connect to try and find out more about magical bottles. I could have asked Nightingale what he knew, but I wanted to be the one who came up with the answer this time. It would show him that I was able to do something other than make things explode with formae that weren't meant to blow anything up. 

He seemed a bit preoccupied, looking at his food and only really picking at it. He was probably thinking about the case, I decided, that or worrying about Gordon Morden finding out he'd not got any older. 

There was a lot of bottle stuff that didn't seem to apply, like bottles for dolls, YouTube clips of a Tommy Cooper magic trick and the story of an American couple who'd met by putting a message in a bottle and chucking it in the sea. 

Eventually I went down the route of googling anything weird in this bit of Surrey and after reading a load of stuff that really wasn't any use at all. Well not unless you wanted to know about 17th diarist who thought they'd seen a puma, several old pubs that apparently had the ghost of jilted serving girls and one about a pond haunted by a girl who'd drown rather than let King John of Robin Hood fame see her with nothing on, I finally found what I was looking for. 

Back in the 17th century, which as far as I could tell was ghost producing central, the had been a decidedly dodgy wizard living in the area. Matthew Pulver had lived in Friday Street in the mid 1600s. It was a couple of miles from Pinecote cottage, which was probably why we'd drawn a blank with that before we'd headed out to the sticks. A physician by training and a wannabe alchemist according to local gossip, he'd been rumoured to be involved in few dodgy things before the plague broke out in 1665. Pulver had then, by all accounts, tried to use the plague to further himself. The article didn't use the word zombie, I guess the person writing it had wanted to sound like they were a serious historian rather than a nutcase, but you could tell they'd had to work hard to find another way of putting it. After the death of a couple of villagers he had disappeared never to be seen again. I supposed they must have assumed he'd been murdered at the time and since there seemed to be no love lost between him and the locals and no impartial police force to investigate that was all that was known. Until now at least. So I told Nightingale what I'd found out so far. 

"Could he have killed people and trapped their ghosts in a bottle or something like that?" I asked. I'd seen some very weird things since I'd started working with Nightingale and I suspected that before I'd finished my apprenticeship I would see many more. 

"It is hard to say, Peter," Nightingale replied. "Magic was still in the very early stages of being quantified. The traditions that eventually were codified into the Newtonian magic we use today were just one of many that existed at that time. I must admit it is not an era that I am overly familiar with." 

Which was just great. "I don't suppose you know anything about him?" I asked. I didn't hold out much hope of it. Nightingale knew his stuff, but what he did best was the practical side of it. Yes, he was teaching me, but I also knew that before he set out any lessons for me he often had to read up on it himself first. It had surprised me at first that he needed to as I'd kind of thought of him as a sort of walking encyclopaedia of all that's magical. It hadn't taken me long to realise that while Nightingale was very good with the hands on part of magic, I guess because of the war and decades of dealing with London's hidden magical nasties, he saw the academic side of it as something just to be checked when needed and otherwise left alone. 

"It's not an area that I'm familiar with. And if we are lucky Peter it is something that we needn't worry about." He got up. "I think we paid Mr Rhodes a visit." 

*******

 

Monty's shop was just off the high street. It looked like what you'd expect an antiques shop to look like. Old building, with those little bubbled glass panes in the bow fronted window, while the inside looked like it had been crammed full with as many bits of old furniture, paintings and ornaments as possible. There was a closed sign on the door, but the lights were on inside and I could see somebody moving about behind what I guessed was the counter. 

Hoping that it was Monty who was in there and that we hadn't got spectacularly awful timing and turned up in the middle of a burglary, I knocked on the door. 

I'm not sure I agreed with Pat's assumption about Monty Rhodes private life, to me looked like he should have been presenting one of those antiques shows on the BBC. Short and round with bristling mutton-chop whiskers, a floral waistcoat whose buttons looked like they might give up at moment and a maroon silk cravat.

"You must be the policemen who called me earlier. Had your mate Gordo on blower just now as well, he said worked with you back in the day. Up in the smoke wasn't it?" He took Nightingale's hand and shook it vigorously. "So what is it you're looking for? A nice little something for the Missus? Got some lovely cut glass pieces, genuine Eighteenth Century they'd make a lovely anniversary present. Or..." He looked at me. "Is it something for your young man?" 

It wasn't the first time we'd had people assume me and Nightingale were together and I doubted it would be the last. Even Seawoll had assumed it the first time he'd met me. I couldn't quite work out if I should be flattered that people should think we were together or not. In the end I decided that I'd just let them think what they wanted. It wasn't any worse than what I'd assumed Nightingale was up to the first time I met him. I mean who hangs about Covent Garden in a suit like that a one in the morning unless you're there to catch somebody's eye? If there was another reason for it I'd not worked it out. I'd considered asking him, but in the end decided against it as I couldn't work out if I'd be disappointed or not if it turned out he'd just been walking home from somewhere. Yes, I really had put too much thought into it. 

If Nightingale was offended that Monty had thought we were together he didn't show it, and he said, "I'm afraid this isn't a social call Mr Rhodes. I'm enquiring about a Seventeenth Century glass bottle you bought today at Dunsfold."

Monty looked interested rather than worried, and said, "Do come in. It's a rotten day out there." He waited until we were inside and then added. "The bottle, yes. It was a nice little piece. I'll just go and get it. Although I can't think why the police would be interested in it." 

As soon as Monty disappeared through the jumble of furniture and into the back room of the shop, I felt Nightingale searching for vestigia. So I followed suit. There wasn't anything much, just the very faint trace that must have been left when Monty had taken the bottle into the back. 

"It's not in as good condition as I'd hoped," Monty said as he came back into the shop a few moments later. Held in his hand was a rather grubby green glass bottle with a tatty piece of string tied around the neck. He tilted the bottle forwards for Nightingale and me to see. "The seal around the neck has been broken. Recently too." He shook his head. "The woman who was selling it at the Dunsfold fair hadn't seemed to have any idea what she had. If she had she might have taken better care of it. A genuine, unopened wine bottle from the Reformation."

"A far more potent spirit than that," Nightingale said as he took the bottle from him. Holding it by the base he held it up and looked at it. "It may once have held a fine vintage. However this is not the original stoppering. This is a witch bottle. They were very common in the Seventeenth Century as a lucky charm to keep a house safe from spells and curses. People were very superstitious in those days." 

"What?" Monty said, managing a look that was as much baffled as disappointed. "It's just piece folk history tat?" 

"There may be a small, local museum who might be willing to take it by way of a donation," Nightingale said smoothly. "It would all depend on the provenance of it. Perhaps if it were associated with a famous historical figure or event it might be worth a little more."

Monty sat down, looking resigned to the fact that he wasn't getting it back. "That's where the problem is. I don't have one beyond what the woman at the antiques fair, Pat something I think it was, told me. It came from a house clearance. Some old woman who'd lived there for years and had no family popped her clogs. All the stuff worth anything was all getting sold off by the solicitors, the rest they let the house clearance company sell off as they wanted. Reckon they wanted to get the house on market. That's where the big money is round here."

Nightingale nodded and got out a notebook. I could see Monty looked a bit panicked about things now, and he started to shift uneasily from foot to foot. Definitely a bit jumpy. That didn't have to mean guilt about anything, it might just be the nervousness that a lot of people seem to get when faced with the police.

"There is a possibility this was originally taken during a burglary," Nightingale continued. "Although I have no evidence to support than one way or another. Not yet at least." 

It was the first I'd heard of any burglary and I suspected that it would also be the last. Yeah, I suddenly wasn't liking this investigation one bit, but I trusted that Nightingale had his reasons. At least I hoped he did, because I was going to ask him what he was playing at once we were away from Monty. I knew that we were working this one off the books, but it still made me uncomfortable seeing Nightingale talk Monty into handing the bottle over. There wasn't much else he could have done and I suspected that in the past a lot of investigations had got their results in similar ways. It didn't mean I had to like it though. I knew if Lesley had been there she'd have never let him do it, and part of me wished that she had been. I mean there was no criminal case for anybody to answer, well not apart from the person or persons unknown that did Pulver in the best part of four-hundred years ago, and we weren't going to be able to get them. 

"I'm well rid, ain't I?" Monty said, as he watched Nightingale place the bottle into a bag and hand it to me. I took it and tried not to feel like we were breaking the law. 

"Definitely."

"I don't suppose there's any chance of compensation, is there?" Monty asked hopefully. "Even if it's just cost price and maybe a little extra for bringing it to you." 

"Being unaware that an item is stolen isn't a valid defence in court. However, if you which me to record how you came into possession of it, should it turn out not to have been stolen, I can."

"No, no," Monty said quickly. "I'll just chalk this one up to me doing my civic duty. It only cost me a tenner. You take it." 

"Very nice to see such an attitude these days," Nightingale said shaking Monty's hand. 

"Should I keep clear of her in future?" Monty said, still sounding a little jumpy. "Can't afford to lose too much stock."

"Patricia had no idea of it origins either. She seem to keep very good records of her purchases. This was an unfortunate isolated event." He turned to me. "Come along, Peter. We need to get this back to the station."

"Did you really have to lie to him like that?" I asked once we were out of the shop and walking back to the car. "To make up a case? What if makes a complaint? How are we going to explain it?" Seawoll would have a field day it he heard about it and I doubted we be able to cover it up if it ever got out. 

"I was not intending to dupe him, not at first," he said, sounding more concerned than apologetic. "But he had tampered with the seal. Or Patricia had. Look." 

Opening the carrier bag I looked at where the waxed string around the neck of the bottle had come away. It didn't look too bad to me. The cork seemed pretty well jammed in the narrow neck and there was enough grime around it that it was probably impossible to remove without breaking the bottle.

"Peter. Tell me if you can feel any vestigia?" 

It was an odd question because we both knew there would be. It was how I'd found the thing in the first place. I had another check for it and was instantly glad I wasn't holding bottle. The same something that had been present at the antiques fair was there, only much stronger now. It was damp and musty like old, wet paper or damp leaves with something underneath, something that crackled, all cold, sharp edges, like broken glass. It felt far more unpleasant than it should have and I was glad when Nightingale closed the bag. 

"The cord is a symbolic seal, there would have also been a wax disc when it was whole. The binding spell is failing now the seal is gone. The magic that is holding what you can feel inside will be gone in a few hours at most. We need to get this back to the Folly, Peter. And we need to get it back there before it gets dark." 

It had all been a bit of funny country jaunt until now, complete with a selection of colourful characters. The concern in his voice was clear and if I'd learnt anything working with Nightingale it was if it spooked him then we were up the proverbial creek with no paddle. "Do I want to know what will happen if we don't?" 

"I can't be certain, but there is definitely something powerful inhabiting the bottle," he replied. "From what you found out I believe this bottle contains the spirit of Matthew Pulver, rather than some unfortunate that he murdered. I don't know enough about his level of skill as a practitioner know with any degree of certainty what he might still be capable of if he were to be released. The ghost of a wizard is always an unpredictable entity. From the little you found I very much doubt that it would be a pleasant experience for anybody should he do so." 

It was definitely an 'oh crap' moment. The idea of the ghost of a mad scientist type being contained for several hundred years only to be let out by an unwitting antiques dealer seemed like the plot of a low budget horror movie. And we all know what happens to the black guy in those.

"I suppose we'd better head straight back," I said, thinking wistfully of the chip shop we'd passed. The sandwiches at the pub had been okay, but I'd got use to Molly's Sunday lunches, and a cheese sandwich and some crisps just wasn't the same. It would be a good hour and a half until we got back to the Folly even if the roads were clear, which was something that never happened when you wanted to get anywhere in a hurry. If we had to deal with Pulver when we got back there was a very good chance that we might not end up getting anything to eat until about seven or eight o'clock. There was no point asking if we could get a takeaway as there was no way Nightingale would let me eat it in the car. 

"It would be safest." He started walking again. "Don't look so worried, Peter. Once we are at the Folly it will be a simple matter of resealing the bottle and storing it somewhere secure." 

 


	2. Chapter 2

You know how when you’re in a hurry to get somewhere suddenly everything that can go wrong immediately does. Well it decided right there and then to do so. We’d left Cranleigh with its odd mix of old country village charm and soulless commuter belt blandness and headed up the A281. We’d been making good time and I was looking forward to whatever Molly had made for us, when the traffic in front of us ground to a halt about two thirds of the way through Shalford.

Shalford looked like the sort of place that would have an amateur dramatics society, an active WI and where everybody was on the neighbourhood watch to keep tabs on their neighbours and complain about wind turbines and fracking rather than from any real risk of crime. It was probably a lovely place, but at the moment it was doing a good impression of a car park. It was a look that I associated with London during rush hour, not a smallish village on a Sunday afternoon. 

Annoying as sitting in stationary traffic was it wouldn’t have been problem had Nightingale and I not overlooked one thing. Okay overlooked wasn't exactly the right word and I was willing to give Nightingale some slack on it as he was beginning to look knackered and had started every so often to rub the shoulder where he’d been shot little more than five months ago. He'd been doing alright lately, but I still worried sometimes that he was pushing himself too hard. The fight on the rooftop with Faceless really hadn't helped and he'd been exhausted by the time Simone and her sisters had tragically finished our case for us. He looked out at the rapidly darkening sky and frowned, then said, "Peter, what time is it?" 

I looked at my phone, momentarily confused at why was getting dark when it was only just gone three in the afternoon. I wondered for a moment if it was because London was so filled with artificial lighting that I'd assumed the sun was setting well after five, then I realised what had happened. 

"I assume from that look something isn't right," Nightingale said.

You can't easily kick yourself while sat in a car, but I really felt like I should. It was the last Sunday in October, the clocks had gone back. I had remembered for a change. That wasn't the problem. No, the problem was that my phone had helpfully put itself back an hour as well. So there we were stuck in traffic, with sunset little more than an hour away and no hope of getting to the Folly before our dodgy wizard in a bottle did his thing. 

The phone did manage to redeem itself a bit a minute or so later when, after finding there was no wifi signal secure or otherwise that I could hook up to, I decided to run up my phone bill by using it to get online. The unfortunate result was I discovered we were even more screwed than previously thought. There had been a crash where our road joined the A3100, so going through Guildford was right out. Which gave us two options. Turn around and try to join the A3 below Guildford and hope it was actually moving or take the next right, assuming anybody would let us. From there we could cut across country using the back roads and join the A24 at Dorking and head up to the circular car park also known as the M25. I gave Nightingale our options, which he looked far from happy about. 

"Assuming that the time is actually just after four, we have approximately forty-five minutes until sunset," he said looking at the gloomy, rain filled sky. "We cannot possibly reach the Folly in that time, therefore we need to find somewhere remote. I had hoped to be able to reseal the bottle and avoid a confrontation, but that is no longer an option open to us. Should Pulver make an appearance I will need to deal with him without interruption." 

I could already feel the vestigia attached to the bottle growing stronger, filling up the car with its mental bad smell of wet paper and pointy things. There was something sickly sweet with it now as well, like rotting meat. The whole carefully worded not a zombie thing from the internet sounded a whole lot more worrying now and I was suddenly glad that I'd not been able to get those chips.

Fifteen frustrating minutes later we'd finally managed to get the Jag a mile further up the Shalford road and made the right turn that would take us through the middle of nowhere on the way to Dorking. Dorking being a small market town whose one and only claim to fame was producing a breed of five toed chicken. Amazing what random facts you pick up while you're looking for anything weird about the area. How the people round here contained their excitement I didn't know. 

"Do I want to know why it would be a bad thing not to have got this sorted out by the time it gets dark?" I asked as when Nightingale switched on the headlights. The narrow road with its thickly overhanging trees was like a tunnel and I wasn't sure if we were going to get where we wanted to go before the sun set. What if just being somewhere dark made it do its thing? Was some bizarre zombie-wizard-ghost combo going to pop out of the bottle like the world's oddest genie and try to eat our brains? 

"Why wouldn't you want to know?" Nightingale replied. His voice sounded strained and as much as I wanted to put it down to the fact that he didn't like driving down a road that was only about one and a half cars wide and with more blind corners than anywhere should rightfully have, I suspected that some of it was the fact his shoulder was hurting. Nobody drove with one arm held as still he was unless it was getting uncomfortable to move it. 

"Ignorance is bliss if you're about to be eaten by zombies." 

"Really, Peter. Zombies don't eat people," he said. Which was no comfort at all as it still left it open for there to be zombies who could kill you in nasty painful, chewy ways. 

"If you want to be useful," he said sounding tense. "You could you get the map in the glove box and find somewhere with as few houses and people as possible."

Even the inside of the glovebox was finished to the same standard as the interior of the Jag. That was real quality, you just didn't get things like that on your every day car. The glovebox was of course tidy and along with the map really did contain a pair of leather driving gloves. Which made a change, as in my experience the glovebox tended to get used as a handy spot to put your empty crisp packets and sandwich wrappers. There was just enough light in the car to see the map was about twenty years out of date, but I didn't think the roads around here were likely to have changed much or more likely at all in the last couple of centuries. "Okay," I said, running a finger down the creased page. "We should nearly be at a village called Shere. We need to take a left after the church. It goes up onto a place called the Hurtwood. It looks pretty empty up there." 

Nightingale nodded, all concentration on the road. I suspected he was already planning what he was going to do when and if Pulver appeared. At least I hoped he was, because I had no idea what you did with ghost wizards. 

The back roads were deserted and we soon got to Shere. Shere seemed to be one of those villages that appeared on postcards to show foreign tourists what an English village looked like. A Medieval church, an old half-timbered inn and a little stream running through a ford in the heart of the village. There was no time to hang about however, and few minutes after leaving Shere we pulled up in a tiny gravelled car park in the middle of nowhere. It was obviously meant for hikers as the there was handy compass point, an information board telling us that on a clear day you could see the Shoreham Gap, and a little bin for dog mess. 

There seemed to be nothing but gloomy woodland with a few pines standing higher than the rest on the next hill top. It didn't seem right that there could be somewhere so empty looking so close to London. London or at least the light pollution from it was visible as a dull orange glow on the northern horizon. 

"We can't risk doing this in the car park," Nightingale said taking a couple of heavy duty torches from the boot of the Jag. He also took out his staff and a leather satchel which had been hidden under a few odds and ends. Okay, maybe not well hidden, but enough that you didn't see it right away. 

We picked the widest of the tracks that left the car park and followed it into the woods. The path was sandy, proper fine, yellowish sand that half the beaches on the south coast would have loved to have had. Which made the dense pine trees all the more odd. They weren't Christmas tree type pines that get used for forestry plantations because they grow in a few years, they were Scots pines. It was amazing the the facts that you picked up at pub quizzes and still remembered a few years later. 

The path eventually opened out into a clearing where it met four other similar looking paths. Nightingale looked around, torch swinging arcs of pale light against the scrubby bushes spread a metre or so back from the edge of the path and into the tree line. "Here will do, Peter. There's enough space."

"For what?"I asked, wondering just how big he expected the thing in the bottle to be. 

"For the containment circle," he said. "This was covered in Grafton's guide to ceremonial magic. I thought you had completed that. I set it for you because had a very comprehensive over view of demon traps. After what Wheatcroft left for us in his flat I felt it necessary that you understand how and why such things are made and most importantly how to deactivate them. Really Peter, I might not always be there to help you."

He sounded worried more than angry, but even more than both of those he sounded tired. I wanted to be annoyed that he thought I wasn't studying as hard as I could or that I wasn't competent enough to do this, but the fact was the book had been almost terminally boring and after seeing what Faceless could do on the rooftop knew with a sick certainty that there was plenty of magical stuff out there that I was nowhere near ready to face. All the same, I have my pride, so I said, "I'd not realised that was what you were planning to do. Do you need me get anything to make the circle?" 

"I will construct the circle," he replied. "There is a compass in the bag, I need you to mark out the cardinal points on the outer circle once it is drawn. And then you will need to get the bag of salt. The unopened one, if you please, and make an unbroken line following outer circle." 

Using his staff, Nightingale drew a circle in the sand about three metres across and then another circle around it about half a metre out. There was magic going into the formation of the circle. I could feel it. This was hard core stuff and I wondered how far into their training an apprentice normally was by the time they ended up doing stuff like this? Probably a lot further through than I was, but even that was okay, as it gave me a stupid warm feeling that Nightingale actually trusted me with stuff like this. 

It didn't take long to mark out North, South, East and West on the circle Nightingale had drawn. Then holding the torch in one hand and the bag of salt in the other I tipped it in outer circle. It used pretty much all the bag, but salt is cheap and I got the feeling that this wasn't something that you wanted to skimp on for the sake of a few pence.

Nightingale had spent the time making a series of marks in the space between the two circles. It was too dark to see just what he was doing, but it had to be to prevent whatever came out of the bottle from crossing out into the wider world. I could feel the prickle of energy from it on my skin, the hairs rising on my arms and the back of my neck. 

"What should I do now?" I asked. I knew Nightingale wouldn't set me anything he thought I wasn't able to do safely. Although that did mean I was getting the feeling that I was mostly going to be standing around watching Nightingale do something scarily impressive. I doubted there was much that could get the better of Nightingale in a fair fight. I mean he'd blown up tanks with fireballs, I was proficient in making fruit explode. Great if our wizard-zombie-ghost in a bottle had a terrible apple allergy, but not so much otherwise. 

Nightingale walked as close as he could to the edge of the inner circle without breaking it. "You are to wait here for me finish this." His hand moved forwards like he was going to put in on my arm and then he pulled it back. Although whether that was because he'd thought better of if or whether it was to do with the circle I didn't know. "Peter, promise me whatever happens, whatever you see, you won't cross into the circle under any circumstances." 

"What if..." I began. I wasn't sure where I was going with it, okay I was, but I didn't want to think about anything happening to him and me before forced to stand by totally unable to help. 

"The circle will prevent anything magical from escaping it. I will neutralise it once the threat has been dealt with. Until then Peter, please do not do anything that might disrupt the circle." He turned away from me and then said, "In the very unlikely event anything untoward were to happen to me the circle is designed to destroy whatever is inside should I fail to reinforce the wards every ten minutes." 

Now that was pretty damn terrifying. I mean what if he was knocked out or something? Could he get killed by his own spell? It didn't look like Nightingale was in the mood to talk about it right now, and I reluctantly came to the conclusion that now wasn't the time to ask. Later, when we were both okay and on the way back to London in the Jag with the air con turned up as high as it would go to dry us out from the drizzle that had begun to fall, I'd ask him. Who knows? I might even get an answer. 

I wasn't sure what I expected to happen once Nightingale was ready to deal with the bottle, but him smashing the top off it using his staff wasn't it. It was anti-climactic really as absolutely nothing happened. Even Nightingale looked taken aback by that and he prodded the broken glass with the staff. 

"Is it empt..." I began, then I saw thin tendrils of what looked like oily smoke starting to curl from the shattered neck of the bottle. 

"I believe that answers your question," Nightingale replied with wry amusement. He raised his staff, holding it across himself. "Now stay back. I really can't have the distraction of worrying about you while I do this." 

I hadn't really seen Nightingale use his staff before. I knew the little he'd told me about it, that it was kind of like a magic storage battery. Which was probably necessary for something like this as doing this sort of magic, as without a store to draw on would most likely turn your brain to irreparable mush. 

The smoke had quickly formed into a human-like shape and was now rapidly gaining enough definition for it to become something recognisably a person. Nightingale didn't make any kind of move to do anything while Pulver solidified into the most real looking ghost I'd seen. Excluding Henry Pyke, of course, but Pyke had been a special case. Pulver's long robe like coat, flapped about him, which when combined with his thin face and a roman nose Julius Ceaser would have been envious of meant he looked like a great crow. Or rather a giant crow in a wig, as he'd got one of those curly shoulder length things like the statue of Newton had back in the Folly. 

Pulver also appeared to have a staff of his own. I wasn't sure if a ghost staff was likely to be more of less dangerous than the real thing. I didn't particularly want to find out by way of a practical demonstration either, but it looked like that was what was going to happen as he'd raised it in a mirror image of what Nightingale had done. 

Illuminated by the light from my torch I watched as they began their tense stand off. Circling each other they both carefully avoided the lines in the sand. If either of them were talking I had no idea what they were saying as no sound escaped the circle. I could see Nightingale's mouth moving, forma being combined to do...well I wasn't sure what, but whatever it was it was something totally beyond my abilities as yet. I could feel the power of it a few metres away, like static electricity building up before a storm. The circle was dampening how much I felt outside of it. The power contained within it, must have been incredible and I actually felt rather disappointed that I couldn't get closer to the action and feel just how powerful Nightingale was. Which sounded all sorts of wrong when it was put like that, but I couldn't think of any other way of describing it. 

Pulver was clearly reluctant to make a move and had lowered one of his arms from the defensive position that it had been in. I was beginning to think that Nightingale was about to quickly and quietly zap him out of existence when I saw a glint of something in Pulver's hand. The knife had obviously been concealed inside the sleeve of his frock coat and was still mostly hidden by his hand and sleeve. From where Nightingale was I doubted that he could see it. Was bringing a knife to a magical duel the equivalent to bringing a gun to a knife fight? or was it like facing up to nuke armed with a rock? Did Pulver have the upper hand in the fight? or was he about to try something desperate because Nightingale completely outclassed him? 

In the end I decided that whatever Pulver's reasoning was it didn't actually matter. All that did was that he intended to hurt Nightingale. I had no idea whether a ghost knife could actually hurt you and it if it did whether it would cause damage like a real knife or if it would do something else. Either way I doubted it would be good for Nightingale to get stabbed with it. The question was how to stop Pulver without distracting Nightingale or breaking the circle.

So after a quick look around I decided to go with the tried and tested method of chucking something at the other guy's head. Crude perhaps, but pretty much always effective. The only thing in the circle that I could pick up using Aer was the remains of the bottle.  
Pulver had edged closer to Nightingale and I knew that he was getting ready to make his move so I picked up the bottle and threw it at him. 

It certainly distracted him. As the moment it hit him there was a flash of light and then it was like being in an explosion. Only there wasn't any noise or heat. There was force though, like being hit with a massive gust of wind and I felt myself being pushed back and then lifted off my feet. 

I landed about five metres back from where I'd been standing. Lying still, I tried to work out if I'd managed to do any damage to myself other than a few bruises. It didn't feel like it and I took a moment to be thankful that I'd been thrown into the short scrubby berry bushes that lined the side of the path, rather than into the massive pine tree less than a metre to my right. Now that would have hurt.

Why did so many of the things I did with magic end up with things going boom? I wondered as I got to my feet. I expected Nightingale would have a thing or two to say about what I'd just done. It seemed to have worked however, so that was in my mind a win. 

Nightingale had been thrown back out of the circle and was just getting to his knees as I hurried over to him. 

"Whatever were you thinking?" he snapped before I could ask him if he was okay. "Or is just the case of you not thinking at all? You could have been killed." 

"Pulver had a knife," I said, realising that he'd probably not seen it. It had been mostly behind Pulver's back after all. "He is gone, isn't he?" I asked, really not wanting there to be a round two. Nightingale wasn't in any shape for it and I wasn't sure I could take on anything that could survive being so thoroughly exploded. 

"I didn't see it. I should thank you," Nightingale said sounding surprised and shaken now. "It was still a very foolish thing to do, Peter, you could have seriously hurt or even killed." He looked me up and down, before finally asking, "You are alright, aren't you?"

"Nothing a nice long soak in hot bath won't fix," I said and then offered him a hand up as he was still sitting on the ground. "Are you okay?"

There was definite noise of discomfort as Nightingale got to his feet. Pressing a hand to the shoulder, he gave it a couple of tentative movements, before finally saying, "I will be. Just a little stiff from an awkward landing, that's all."

I wasn't a hundred percent sure I believed him. Nightingale didn't seem to get the idea of taking it easy for a while and I suspected that most people wouldn't have even been back at work yet, never mind driving around the countryside and getting thrown through the air by exploding ghosts. I also suspected that he'd still be claiming he was fine when we got back to the car, but the Jag for all its vintage loveliness didn't have power assisted steering and that had to be hell with his shoulder being as sore as it plainly was. I hoped that he'd let me drive it back, not just because I wanted a chance to show him that I could drive it without running it into a tree, but because I wasn't convinced that he was in any shape to be behind the wheel at the moment. 

We spent a couple of minutes picking up the fragments of glass from the bottle. Then while Nightingale erased what was left of the circle by scuffing it out with his shoe and with the end of his staff, I checked my phone. I had switched it off to avoid it getting zapped. You learn handy things like that when you're an apprentice wizard. Unfortunately when Pulver had gone kaboom and I'd nearly ended up in a tree my phone hadn't been so lucky. It was soaking wet from where it had landed in a puddle after falling out my pocket and sporting massive crack in the screen. I had a go at switching it on, but all it did was make a brief whistling noise and then stopped working entirely. Phone number four bites the dust. From now on I decided, I was just going to buy the cheapest, most basic thing I could for everyday use. It was getting too expensive otherwise. 

Not that that would help us right now or changed the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere in the dark, without a map or a working phone. That we were both soaking wet, cold and sporting more bruises than I wanted to think about really didn't help either. 

"Can you recall which of these paths will get us back to the car," Nightingale said, once he was satisfied that there was nothing left to show our confrontation with Pulver. 

I looked around. The light from the single working torch didn't do much against the wet and windy evening and finally I had to admit defeat. "I don't know," I said eventually. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault, Peter. I've been in worse situations," Nightingale said, putting a hand on my arm. Then seeming to realise what he'd done pulled it back like he'd grabbed a hot pan. "I believe the path we took to get here went uphill, it should lead down on the way back."

Unfortunately of the paths leading away from where we were seemed to be flat, so in the end we just picked one and started walking.  
After about half an hour I knew we'd picked the wrong path. We should have been back at the car park by that point, not surrounded by increasingly thick and creaking trees and things that scuttled and rustled unseen in the bushes around us. 

"I've never liked pine woods," Nightingale said suddenly. "That's all that grew around Ettersberg, you know. They grew so close together they seemed to block out the sun. It was so dark and cold, I've never felt anything quite like it either before or since."

There had been something thin about his voice, and I should have probably asked if he wanted to talk about it. I knew Ettersberg was a pretty big deal for him and for all wizards who'd been around in the Forties, but I chickened out and said, "No sun to block out here, it's night time already." 

"Yes. Yes, of course it is," he said, stopping and looking round at the trees that crowded in on every side of us. "I've got to remember that. I'm not there." 

I wasn't sure he was entirely aware he'd said all of that aloud, and if the way he kept looking about us, head moving sharply round at any small sound, was anything to go by I guessed he was having a hard time remembering it. I ended up bumping into him a couple of times as he suddenly stopped walking. It was how I realised he shivering, as we ended up grabbing hold of each other to avoid ending up in a heap on the path. I hoped it was only the cold and damp, but I wouldn't have taken any bets on it. 

I was shivering too, but that was mostly because my jeans were half soaked from where I'd been thrown into the bushes growing in the ditch at the side of the path. Wet demin is pretty damn unpleasant. My knee hurt as well and I suspected that I'd find a cracking bruise in the morning, but all in all it could have been a whole lot worse. 

Fifteen minutes or so after our last collision I realised Nightingale had started limping as well. Not badly, just a small hitch in his step, but made me worry all the same. I wished I could say stop and rest, but we couldn't. So I kept close to him and felt rotten about making him walk. He didn't complain, but I was of the opinion that his leg could have fallen off and he still wouldn't have said anything. Even when he'd been recovering from being shot he'd never said when it was hurting or he felt awful and needed to rest. Which after the fight on the rooftop with Faceless had actually been a bit of an issue, as he'd all but collapsed from exhaustion by the time we'd got back to the Folly. I'd nearly ended up calling Dr Walid to make sure he'd not done himself any permanent damage. 

We wandered around for a bit longer and I was serious beginning to think that we'd somehow managed to end up in some weird forrest dimension when the path suddenly dipped down through the pines and abruptly ended at the side of a narrow road. A road was good, I told myself, trying for a positive spin on our current situation. After all a road had to go somewhere, otherwise why build it? It was about the only positive thing though, as the drizzle that had started shortly before Pulver had shown up had decided to steadily increase until it had become a freezing wet torrent. 

We'd been squelching along for about five minutes when we saw a flicker of light ahead further up the road and the rumble of an engine as a motorbike came towards us. I would have preferred a car. We might have been able to get a lift if they stopped long enough for us to show them our warrant cards and let them know we were police rather than some weirdo hitchhikers. Even a bike was better than nothing, as even though they couldn't give us a lift they still might be able to tell us where we were or make a phone call for us. Not that I had any idea who we could call. Walid was visiting his family up in Scotland, Lesley wasn't cleared to drive again yet and I doubted we'd ever live it down if we called Seawoll and told him we needed a police pick up because we'd lost our car because it was dark. 

As the bike got closer I decided to wave my arms and hope they'd get the hint and stop. It worked. The bike slowed down and pulled over next to us, its substantial engine still noisily ticking over. The person on the bike proved to be a young woman with a West Country accent and long blonde hair that poked out from under her helmet. She looked at us somewhat dubiously from behind her visor. "What happened to you two?" 

She sounded slightly suspicious and honestly I could think of no good reason why she shouldn't be. I would have been suspicious if I'd seen us too. Honestly I was surprised that she'd stopped at all. Surprised, but bloody relieved. 

"We parked our car and went for a walk," Nightingale said, somehow managing to sound almost like his usual cool, calm and collected self. "However, we appear to have lost track of where we are and where our car is."

She pointed back down the road the way she had come. "There's a village about half a mile or so that way. Peaslake. There's a nice little pub there, does cracking home cooked meals. And I'm totally not biased because my Mum works there." She laughed. "They do rooms if you can't find your car tonight. I wouldn't recommend wandering around the Hurtwood in the dark. There's enough places where there's a sheer drop, especially if you head over onto the Coldharbour road and round Windy Gap."

I smiled and nodded. I didn't have the faintest idea where any of those places were, but I was willing to take her word for it that we didn't want to be wandering around there in the dark. 

"Thank you," Nightingale said. "It is very much appreciated."

"I hope you have a nice evening," she said, and then with a wave left us alone on the dark, wet road. "And next time, maybe consider booking a room." 

"Did she just assume we were together?" Nightingale said once she'd disappeared into the night. He sounded genuinely confused as he added, "She didn't seem to be offended."

"A lot of young people these days aren't, I mean its been legal since their parents were little kids," I said. I felt kind of sorry for him. I mean if he really was that way inclined, which I suspected he was, it must have been horrible growing and living in a world that hated you for how you felt. 

Nightingale nodded and then said nothing more about it. Which was, I'd come to find, how a lot of our conversations had ended recently. 

"If its called the Slaughtered Lamb or the Prancing Pony I think we should keep walking," I said once we'd started walking again. Although I couldn't see him all that well I could tell Nightingale was giving me a baffled look, so I then spent the next few minutes explaining pop culture references. He didn't seem to be following it all that well, but he was apparently grateful of the distraction from the wet, cold night, so I kept talking. 

Either we were walking very slowly or it was closer to a mile, but we were chilled to the bone when we finally saw the lights of the couple of dozen or so buildings that made up the heart of the village. The place was tiny, just a few houses clustered around a big white painted inn, an old village shop and war memorial that served as a mini roundabout for the junction of three roads that looked like they rarely got any traffic down them. There were probably more people living the tower block along with my Mum and Dad than there were in all of Peaslake. 

"So what's the plan?" I asked, pausing before we went into the warmly lit pub. When he didn't answer I turned back to look at him. Which was a good thing as it turned out as I ended up having to put an arm about him as he swayed on his feet and made a not very coordinated grab for the door frame. 

He blinked owlishly at me. "I'm really not feeling at my best, Peter. I'm not sure. I'm sorry." 

His hand was like ice and he'd mostly stopped shivering, which my somewhat limited first aid skills told me wasn't a good thing. Getting him warm and dry was top priority, even over retrieving the Jag. I'd give him half an hour in the warm pub and if he wasn't looking or sounding any better I was going to call NHS direct and bug the hell out of them until I got an answer. That or call 999, which seemed like an overreaction which Nightingale wouldn't appreciate, but I could handle the idea of a grumpy Nightingale far better than one who was really sick because I'd not looked out for him. 

The heating felt like it had been cranked up to full in the pub and I could have happily stood next to the radiator for the next hour or so. The woman on the front desk who I guessed dealt with anything that wasn't drinks orders was giving us a curious look. Yeah, I knew what she was thinking, no magic needed. Rich city bloke with his ethnic trophy boyfriend out for a dirty weekend in the country. It was what biker woman had no doubt assumed as well. It made more sense than England's last wizard and his apprentice who'd got lost after battling a seventeenth century magician who'd been trapped in a bottle after failing to take over the world with plague zombies. Thinking about it like that just about any explanation made more sense than the truth. The funny thing was the more it happened the less I minded, which confused the hell out of me, so I tried not to think about what that said about me. 

She smiled as we made our way over to her. "Is there anything I can help you with?" 

"I was wondering if you had any rooms for the night?" I had the feeling that this place was probably horribly expensive, but Nightingale had paid for everything else so far today. "We've misplaced our car and I don't think we've got a chance of finding it until it gets light." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. She took the register out from under counter. "Both of our double rooms are currently let. We've got a twin room left, and I can ask Barry to move the beds together." She gave us an apologetic smile. "I don't want you two gents thinking that we've got anything again couples like yourselves. We can do without that kind of publicity." 

"The twin room will be fine," I said, not wanting to argue that we weren't together like that. One twin room would be cheaper than two singles, I reasoned, and it would mean that I could keep an eye on Nightingale. He'd claim that he didn't it, but I suspected he was feeling pretty awful since he'd let me do all the talking, either that or he thought it was funny to let me deal with the inevitable 'you're a couple' assumption. I was never sure whether he had a sense of humour or not. I'd eventually come down on the side of he did and on the rare occasions that he let it out it belonged to school kid. I mean who else would find it funny to conjure up a mini rain cloud and have it follow somebody?

The keys to the room clutched in my hand, we made our way up to our room. The room was at the top of the pub, accessed by a twisting wooden stair case that made me glad I wasn't trying to carry a suitcase up it. Nightingale just about made it upstairs without assistance and once we were in the room he sat down on the end of the bed nearest the radiator. 

There was the issue of clothes. Namely we were soaked and had nothing to change into, and sitting around in wet jeans all night was horrible. The idea of seeing Nightingale wearing nothing at all didn't weird me out as much as I thought it should, which somehow made it even more awkward. It didn't make any sense, but so much in my life didn't any more I gave up wondering about it and started to take off my own soggy clothes and hung them over a radiator. Not all of them admittedly, as when it finally came down to it having Nightingale see me in anything less than pants and a t-shirt felt odd after all, like I wasn't ready to go there yet. Which raised more questions than in answered. I was pretty sure I wasn't ready to ask myself those particular questions and I knew I wasn't ready for the answers that would follow. I doubted Nightingale would be either and he'd had a whole lot more time and experience in thinking about that kind of stuff than I had.

The room was en-suite and I could hear a nice, hot shower calling me, but I told Nightingale that he should use it first, because I'm nice like that and he still looked frozen. He'd made an attempt to get out of his wet clothes, and I couldn't miss the look his face as he tried to get out of the saturated suit jacket. Or how he'd stopped and pressed a hand to his shoulder, his eyes closed. 

"Should I be asking the staff here where the nearest hospital is rather than what they've got for dinner?" I asked. I wasn't entirely serious, but I really did want to know that he was going to be okay before we got any more settled into the place. 

"You really do over react sometimes, Peter," he said as he opened his eyes again. "You're nearly as bad as Abdul. It's nothing serious. I believe I landed on it when Pulver exploded."

By which he meant when I'd made Pulver explode. So I helped him out of the jacket, because it kind of felt like it was my fault his shoulder was playing up. He managed to get out of his shirt by himself and at that point I decided to give him as much privacy as the small room allowed by looking out of the window which had a view of not very much apart from trees and rain. 

Once he was in the shower I hung up his clothes over the other radiator. It was a terrible way to dry a suit, but I doubted letting it sit around soaking wet would do it much good either. This way at least he'd have something dry to put on in the morning.

"How are you feeling?" I asked once he was out of the shower and wrapped in a towel and a duvet. He looked better than he had. Still absolutely knackered, but not like he was about fall over from exhaustion any more. 

"Cold and a little foolish for not marking our route back to the car," Nightingale said, pulling the duvet tighter around himself. "However, I would count today as a success. The Pulver has been dealt with and nobody died."

Given our track record so far with Henry Pyke, Simone and her sisters and then with the Little Crocodiles and the Faceless Man, alive and not horribly injured was a resounding success. I supposed we had to get lucky occasionally. 

Nightingale got the staff to agree to bring food up to our room while I was taking my turn at defrosting in the shower. Power showers really have to be up there in the top ten Twentieth Century inventions. Between the food, a couple of mugs of tea and the hot shower I was feeling a lot happier by the time my clothes were dry enough for me put back on. Nightingale looked better as well, still exhausted, but he'd stopped shivering and I actually believed him when he said all he needed was to rest. 

It wasn't all that late in the evening and I didn't fancy sitting in the bar by myself or watching Nightingale sleep, as that was something that should be reserved for questionable romantic fiction, so I decided I'd better do something useful. So after telling Nightingale what I was going to do, I called the AA. It took a bit of explaining and finally I dropped the hint that we were both police and had been working and would appreciate the help, rather than us being a pair of run of the mill idiots with no sense of direction. Eventually they sent somebody out to collect me and we drove round the back roads until we found the Jag. 

It was fine, which was just as well as I didn't fancy telling Nightingale anything had happened to it because we'd picked the wrong path off the Hurtwood. After thanking the AA man, who seemed amused by the whole situation, I drove it back to the pub. I could live with being the subject of gossip until the guy had a more amusing story to tell. 

It was cold in car and my clothes were still a little bit damp so I didn't enjoy the drive at all. Which was a shame as I didn't get to drive the Jag anywhere near often enough for my liking. The narrow, unlit roads and the pouring rain had made me wish for the brightly lit, well signposted streets of London, and I was relieved when I was able to park it in the small car park at the side of the pub. 

The long day was catching up with me by now and I was barely awake by the time I'd made my way back up the room. Nightingale was asleep having taken the bed by the radiator. Lying on his side, the duvet had slipped down a little and I could see the scar from where the bullet had exited through the back of his shoulder. It was a reminder of how close it had been, of how you could have as much magic as you liked and something so bloody mundane as a bullet could end it all. I could also see that he was going to have some pretty spectacular bruises for a few days. 

"Goodnight, sir," I said, and pulled up the edge of the duvet, covering him again. It felt weirdly domestic. Which was odd, because most of what we did was really if I thought about it. We lived in the same house, ate pretty much all our meals together and seemed to plan what we were going to do with our free time around each other. So I wasn't sure why this should be different. Maybe it was all the people today who'd thought we were a couple. There were worse things to be mistaken for and part of me actually found it kind of flattering. I'd noticed guys before, but mostly it had never been anything more than that. 

I was too tired to think about what it all meant or at least that was my excuse, so I went to bed. In the morning we'd have to make an early start and drive back to the Folly. For now though it was best that we both got a good nights sleep, because who knew what would be waiting for us when we got back. Which was another worrying question. 

Coppers are meant to have nasty suspicious minds and I couldn't help but wonder if we'd been got out of London for a reason. Consequently sleep took rather longer than I thought it would to come. But I totally didn't spend that time trying not to think about why somebody would want us gone by thinking about Nightingale instead. Totally. 

 

The End. 

 

Notes:

I've not yet decided whether they were got out of London for a reason or not. It all depends whether a plot for a sequel type fic comes to me. 

The Surrey Hills area (Abinger Hammer, Shere, Peaslake, Leith Hill, the Hurtwood and Friday Street) that Peter and Nightingale find themselves is an area well know to me as I spent most weekends of my teenage years walking just about all the footpaths that cross them. The 'not quite a town' Cranleigh, Dunsfold with it Top Gear connection (The race track is at Dunsfold Aerodrome) and Dorking, of the five toed chicken fame, are also places that were frequently visited.

Pinecote cottage and Matthew Pulver are however made up for the this story.

The putting the clock back on the phone and then the phone doing it too is taken from something that happened to a friend who ended up turning up for a train an hour early.


End file.
